


Rain

by Saki101



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Banter, Cake, Case Fic, Cats, Established Relationship, Humor, John's Childhood, Kittens, M/M, underground passages
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-10-06
Packaged: 2018-04-14 13:11:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4565838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saki101/pseuds/Saki101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The kittens have not finished telling their tale.  (A sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2328254">Milk</a> and <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2734094">Red</a>.) </p><p>Excerpt:  There was a flash, a crack and a rumble.  The door of 221B opened enough for Mycroft to slip out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Milk_ started from a [kitten-filled drawing by Boffinart](http://saki101.tumblr.com/post/97884559660/im-going-to-submit-this-for-lets-draw) on tumblr.
> 
>  _Milk_ and _Red_ are short and set the stage for _Rain_.
> 
>  _Rain_ turned out to be considerably longer than the previous two stories, so it will be posted in chapter format.

~~~~~~~o0o~~~~~~~

There was a flash, a crack and a rumble. The door of 221B opened enough for Mycroft to slip out, wood rapping his heel as it shut. Umbrella unfurled, he crossed the footpath. Rain splattered up from the paving stones, beaded on his shoes, sullied the hem of his trousers. Alistair stood poised by the open car door, his umbrella shielding the interior. Rain pattered on the taut silk. Mycroft sailed beneath it, his umbrella snapping closed, his mobile vibrating against his chest. The rain drummed on the roof; Mycroft pinched the wool of his trousers and sat. A turn of the wrist and a sharp tap silenced the phone.

The car door began to shut. Through the closing gap, something pale streaked. 

Alistair paused. “Shall I remove it, sir?” he asked.

“No,” Mycroft replied, mobile in hand. “The meeting has been moved up.”

*** 

John heard the meowing from the bottom of the stairs. Gray met him half-way up, trotted past, mews sharp and loud. As John entered the sitting room, he could hear the variations in the kitten’s cries as he checked each corner of the downstairs hallway for Sherlock. 

The manila envelope on his laptop caught John’s eye. It bore no writing. He slid out the photographs of Baker Street at night, raindrops on the lens distorting the images. 

“Ah,” John said when he came to the still that had captured most of a number plate. 

Gray complained all the way up the stairs, into the sitting room and from atop the back of Sherlock’s chair. 

John glanced over the photographs. “I’m sorry I’m not Sherlock.” The cat stopped meowing, eyes on John. “He had tests to run that he couldn’t do here.” John looked into the kitchen. The plaintive yowls resumed. John walked towards the overturned bowls on the floor. “I see,” he said, righting them. 

Gray quieted. 

“Not a piece of kibble in sight,” John remarked and pulled a large bag from the cupboard. “You are thorough.” The plastic crinkled loudly as John pulled the seal apart. “This problem, I can help you with.” 

Gray appeared by his side, thrust his head under the stream of food and started crunching. John adjusted his aim. Gray flicked his ear at the occasional bit that grazed him on the way to the bowl.

“I can’t complain about _you_ not feeding yourself.” John looked around. “Where’s Red? Did you eat all his food, too?” he asked as he rinsed and refilled the water dishes.

Downstairs, the door opened and shut. Gray spun around and sped between John’s legs as he set the water down, mews echoing off the walls. 

John followed him.

“Oh, John, did you get the envelope Mycroft dropped off?” Mrs Hudson called when John came into view.

Behind her, Gray was sniffing along the bottom of the door and meowing.

“Yeah,” John said, descending further. “When’d he come by?”

“Not ten minutes after you and Sherlock left,” she said. “I was just going over to Mrs Turner’s. She had tickets for the cinema. Do you know you can print them out from your computer now?”

Gray was up on his hind legs, scratching along the door jamb.

“No I didn’t, actually,” John said. “It’s been a while since I’ve been.”

“Well, you can. And they scan them when you get there. Don’t even read them, just wave a little machine over them before they admit you.” She glanced at Gray. “I told Mycroft to mind the kittens running out when I let him in.” She peered up the stairs. “Red hiding?”

“I haven’t seen him yet,” John replied. “But I just put food out. He’s probably found it by now.”

Gray made a circuit of the hallway and started up the stairs, sniffing and meowing more softly.

“He misses Sherlock when he’s not home, doesn’t he?” Mrs Hudson said, watching the cat’s ascent.

John half turned. “He didn’t get to nest in Sherlock’s hair much today. Puts him right out of sorts when that happens.”

“Well, I’ll come up and see if I can console him,” Mrs Hudson said. “I bought the cutest little feather thing on a string yesterday. I thought he and Red might like it. And the cake I made this morning will be cool by now. Shall I bring some up?”

“I’ll put the kettle on.”

*** 

The screen between the front and back seats rolled down. “Well, moggie, what shall we do with you?” Alistair asked, peering over the partition.

Ears flattened, Red stared back from a corner by the seat, exposed now that Mycroft had taken the attaché case away.

“You got rather wet in your dash for freedom.” Alistair shook his head. “I think you’ve traded more for less.”

Red lifted a forepaw and licked the spiked fur.

There were two clicks and a large chamois sailed over the partition. It settled in a soft mound on the carpet. “There you go.”

Red hissed, ears flattened.

In the front seat, a mobile buzzed. Alistair turned away. 

Red’s ear cocked for an instant then flattened again. His eyes narrowed at the amorphous shape on the floor. Crouched, he crept forward and sniffed. 

“Yes, please. No time for breakfast this morning.” Alistair glanced over the back of the seat. 

Red was digging the claws of an outstretched paw into the cloth. 

“Any chance you’re...” The call ended. Alistair tapped the phone against the leather. “He who hesitates is lost,” he said. “Hopefully, she isn’t allergic to the likes of you,” he added over his shoulder. 

*** 

Gray sat down on the tangle of string and bright feathers.

“I think we can declare it a success,” John said, setting down his mug.

Mrs Hudson beamed. “I thought they’d like it.” Her gaze swept around the edges of the carpet. “I’m surprised Red didn’t come out from wherever he’s tucked himself up though.”

“We may have to move the furniture again to find him,” John said.

“But he hasn’t done that in a long while,” Mrs Hudson replied. She bit at the edge of her lip. “You don’t think...”

Gray lifted his head and sprang towards the door, skidding as he made the turn into the hall, meowing at full volume.

“Well,” John said, “we can consult the expert in a minute.”

*** 

Alistair leaned across the seat to push the door open. Anthea handed in the bag she was carrying and followed it into the car.

“Unless someone storms out, they aren’t likely to finish anytime soon,” she said, opening the glove box and setting her Blackberry on the tray. “Let’s see if we can eat before that happens.” 

“That bad, eh?” Alistair remarked. He did not reach out to brush away the raindrops caught in Anthea’s hair. He pulled the stapled edges of the bag apart, lifted out a plastic bowl and passed it carefully to her. 

“That bad." She pried the lid off the bowl and took a sip of the miso soup. 

A mew sounded from the back seat.

Anthea tilted her head back and saw the tip of a ginger tail.

“So he took him,” she stated.

Alistair pointed over his shoulder with his chopsticks. “He leapt into the car before I could get the door closed.”

“And you weren’t instructed to remove him?” 

“I was told we’d be late,” Alistair replied.

Anthea raised an eyebrow and finished her soup.

The next mew was louder. Red scrabbled up the back of the front seat. 

Alistair observed the needle-like claws unhooking from the leather upholstery a few inches from his face and winced. “Perhaps we should feed him.” 

*** 

The meowing had stopped. There were footsteps on the stairs. Gray was riding on Sherlock’s shoulder when Sherlock appeared in the doorway.

“Mycroft has him,” he said.

John scowled. “Who?” he asked, the possibilities being manifold.

“Red,” Sherlock replied, eyes sweeping the room.

“He couldn’t resist,” Mrs Hudson said, heading for the kitchen. “I should have known the envelope was just an excuse.”

Sherlock strode to the desk and flipped through the photographs. “Took him long enough,” he said, dropping them back on the table. “Anthea informed me of Red’s location when she texted the name and address that matches this number plate.” He picked up John’s dish and ate the rest of the cake on it. 

Grey stretched forward and sniffed. 

“Why didn’t Mycroft pass on the information when he first saw the CCTV footage?” Sherlock grumbled.

“He kidnapped the cat,” John said, cutting another slice of cake. “Why didn’t he just ask? I said we were looking for a home for Red.”

Sherlock held out his plate and John slid the piece of cake onto it.

“Of course, kidnapping is more Mycroft’s style,” John added.

Sherlock shook his head, mouth full of cake. He swallowed some. “It would appear Red took the initiative,” he said around the rest.

John snorted.

Mrs Hudson came in with a mug of tea and handed it to Sherlock. “I warned him the kittens were sneaking out every chance they got.”

“Oh, really,” Sherlock said, taking the tea. 

“So where’s Red now?” John asked.

Sherlock handed his mobile to Mrs. Hudson.

She perched on the edge of the sofa next to John. “What’s he doing?” she asked, squinting at the phone and tilting it so John could see the video playing.

“Eating salmon sashimi,” Sherlock replied, “in Mycroft’s car.”

***


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Red make progress.
> 
> Excerpt: “There are a number of factors that may have contributed to the driver’s actions.” Sherlock drew in a breath.
> 
> John prepared to listen fast.

~~~~~~~o0o~~~~~~~

Sherlock was silent, eyes riveted on his phone.

John waited as Sherlock sent one text after another. Their taxi was heading northeast. “Where are we going?” John finally asked. He’d been cautiously closing the house door when Sherlock had given the address to the cabbie.

“Islington,” Sherlock replied, scrolling rapidly through a list on his mobile. John couldn’t see of what. “I now have the address of the motorbike’s previous owner.”

“It wasn’t stolen?” John said.

“No, purchased, used.” Sherlock glanced at John, eyes travelling down to his shoes and up to his hair. “You work for Palm Tree. Quality assurance.”

“Wouldn’t theft have been easier?” John asked.

“There are a number of factors that may have contributed to the driver’s actions.” Sherlock drew in a breath.

John prepared to listen fast. 

“He’d been given money, expected to use the bike for longer, thought to keep it, didn’t want the police looking for it, never stole anything before.” Sherlock tapped at his phone. “Perhaps something spooked him that night and he panicked. Perhaps he’d found what he was sent to find and was keen to deliver it and collect the rest of his reward. Maybe he abandoned the bike somewhere between Baker Street and Ramsgate. Maybe someone abandoned him. Little Kit with no police record, hardly any record at all: birth registered twenty years ago in Southwark, National Insurance number, five mediocre GCSEs, two passing A-levels, two year’s PAYE contributions from his job in the neighbourhood pub where his father worked until he retired, recently-acquired provisional driving licence and a current account balance of £109. Perhaps he didn’t know what he was getting into or he couldn’t resist the chance to own his own bike.”

The taxi slowed down. 

“Let’s see if the man who sold Kit Underwood a five-year old Kawaskia Ninja 300 can put some flesh on those statistical bones.” Sherlock held up his phone with an advert of a neon green and black bike on the screen.

John raised an eyebrow. “Not a stealthy colour.” 

The cab stopped in front of the entrance to a small, gated community. 

Sherlock jumped out and rang the buzzer, spoke a few words to the intercom.

John paid the fare and joined him.

The gate opened onto the cobbled court of a mews, the old brick festooned with young ivy and the bare, sharp branches of rambling rose springing from terra cotta urns and metal tubs. 

*** 

The car door slammed. Alistair could hear the steel tips of Anthea’s heels on the pavement for a few steps. The revolving doors swirled and she was gone.

“Let’s hope Round Two is more productive.” Alistair turned his attention to the black blade of his knife, finished cleaning it and folded it into its handle. “I’ve never used this on fish before,” he said.

Red nosed the last piece of salmon into a better position on the cardboard tray.

Alistair shook the last few drops from his water bottle onto the tray.

Red flicked his ear and bit at the fish. It slid into the water.

“Sorry, moggie,” Alistair said. “Thought you might need something to wash that down.”

Red put his paw on the salmon and bit again.

Alistair gathered the remains of their meal into the paper sack. He reached for a chopstick wrapper wedged between the cushion and the back of the seat. 

Red looked up.

Alistair crinkled the paper.

Red forsook the last morsel of fish and stretched out a forepaw to bat at it.

“Like that?” Alistair scrunched the wrapper into a ball and tossed it over the seat.

Red scrambled after it.

Alistair looked at the faint scratches in the leather ruefully then raised the partition. Bag in hand, he unlocked his door and crossed the road, aiming for the rubbish bin at the bus stop. Target gained, he surveyed the street while waiting for another gap in the traffic. He noted Chang in place at the corner, Bennett coming out of the building for his lunch. Both saw Alistair. Neither acknowledged him. Alistair slipped between the passing vehicles and back to the car.

Rain in abeyance, Alistair opened both front windows and settled with his copy of _Le Monde_ propped against the steering wheel. He was turning to the editorial section when his mobile vibrated.

_Walk-out imminent._

Wind rustled the pages. Alistair shut the windows and lowered the partition. “Come up here before I open the back doors.” Alistair twisted around to look in the rearseat.

Red scratched at the pink newspaper on the floor, lifting his paws high when he stepped off it.

Alistair wrinkled his nose. “Good thing I have another copy of that.”

*** 

“You haven’t deposited the money,” Sherlock stated.

They stood in Winston Amar’s sitting room, introductions having been made and false identifications offered and tucked once more away. John had seen the edge of one of Lestrade’s warrant cards and hadn’t even flickered an eyelash.

“I...no,” Mr Amar said.

Sherlock’s gaze finished its circuit of the room. “You didn’t want to use a credit card for your fiancée’s birthday present. Joint finances. You wished it to be a surprise.”

Mr Amar stared. “I was going to collect the bracelet today,” he said. “You think the notes are counterfeit?” He brought his hand to his mouth. “The jeweller is my cousin’s friend. It would have been deeply embarrassing.”

Sherlock reached inside his coat and took out an envelope. “Palm Tree is equally concerned for their reputation as a reliable place to advertise,” he said, gesturing towards John.

“Although one can never 100% guarantee,” John chimed in.

The merest twitch of Sherlock’s lip betrayed his appreciation of the improvised remark. “We, however, can be sure that these are legal tender,” Sherlock said, opening the flap and fanning the notes in the envelope. “If you could bring the ones the buyer gave you, we can exchange. I have a receipt for you to sign once you have counted these to verify the sum.” He looked at the sofa. “Perhaps we should sit.”

“Yes, of course,” Mr Amar said, gesturing to the seats. “I’m shocked, but I suppose I shouldn’t be.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll only be a moment.”

“Forgery?” John murmured.

“Fingerprints,” Sherlock replied.

“There’s an extra fifty here,” Mr Amar said, setting the notes down on top of the envelope on the sofa cushion.

“From Palm Tree, for your inconvenience,” John interjected.

“Eighteen hundred was a good price for that model and year,” Sherlock said, tucking his notes away.

“I took excellent care of it,” Mr Amar explained. “I’d wanted one since I was a boy, but I didn’t use it as often as I thought I would. Not much fun in the rain.” He tilted his head towards the windows. 

“No,” John agreed.

“He didn’t bargain. That should have been a hint,” Amar sighed. “He seemed a decent young man. Asked lots of questions about the bike’s condition, checked it over thoroughly. I guess that distracted me.”

“You spoke for some time, then?” Sherlock said.

“Half hour at least,” Mr Amar replied. “I took him for a short ride, so he could see how well she handled. He paid right after that.”

Sherlock waved towards several framed photographs in the room. “Excellent use of shadows. Your work?” he asked.

Amar nodded and smiled, turning to check on which one Sherlock had focussed. “Astride, my fiancée,” he replied, smile broadening. 

“Pity we don’t have a photograph of the buyer,” Sherlock remarked.

Amar looked back. “True, but I could draw him for you.”

John glanced at Sherlock’s expression and put a little star in his notes.

*** 

Mycroft said one word when he entered the car. With all due speed was implied.

Alistair caught Anthea’s eye for an instant in the rear view mirror before she returned her attention to her Blackberry and he to the traffic light. It turned green. They were all green after that.

The car snaked through the traffic, Alistair’s skill at the wheel compensating for the diminished manoeuvrability caused by the weight of the armour plating on the vehicle. Without incident, they arrived at the terrace. Alistair pulled into the designated parking bay. The gates to the private garden square facing the bay opened silently in front of them and closed behind them with a gentle thunk. A section of the walkway around the garden’s flower beds inclined and the car slipped into the gloom beneath them.

Anthea was out of the car and halfway to the stairway door before Alistair had cut the engine. 

From his perch leaning against the glass partition, Red shifted to watch her.

Alistair jumped out to open the door for Mycroft; Anthea held open the door to the stairs and Red repeated his earlier feat of derring-do in reverse. 

“Shall I...” Anthea asked as Mycroft mounted the stairs, Red leaping from step to step behind him.

“Have Alistair find some food for it,” Mycroft said, tapping each of his fingers rapidly over the touchpad by the steel door at the top of the stairs. “It must need feeding.” The door slid open. Mycroft hesitated a second before walking through. The cat darted between his legs and the door shut.

Alistair set the attaché case down next to Anthea and balanced the remaining newspapers on top of it. “Anything else I should get while I’m at it?” he asked her.

Anthea typed. 

Alistair’s mobile buzzed in his pocket. He checked the message. “Right,” he said and turned back to the car.

***

“Ah!” Sherlock exclaimed and jumped from his seat.

“Fingerprint match?” John asked from behind his newspaper.

“That and more,” Sherlock said, walking over the coffee table and up onto the sofa beside John.

John folded the paper and twisted to look at the map on the wall behind him.

“Attempted kidnapping just there,” Sherlock said, jabbing his finger at the southwest edge of Regent’s Park. “On the night the cat was run down here.” He poked the map again.

“That’s just around the corner,” John said, one arm on the back of the sofa. “I didn’t read anything about that.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock said, glaring at the assortment of papers affixed to the wall.

“Who was it and why wasn’t it reported?” John asked.

Sherlock glanced down at John with the half smile reserved for good questions. “You recall reading about the extensive renovations carried out on that terrace of crown properties?”

“Yeah,” John huffed. “Swimming pools, servant’s quarters, underground parking garages, refurbishments done ‘to an ambassadorial level’ I believe was the phrase the estate agent was quoted as using.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said coaxingly.

“Some ambassadors moved in?” John asked.

Sherlock tilted his head, waiting.

John tapped a knuckle against his lips. “From what I recall of the prices listed, a number of governments might even have balked at them.”

Sherlock’s smile broadened.

“But whoever could afford them would make tempting kidnapping targets...”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“Probably well-connected...” John said, reaching for further conclusions because Sherlock’s eyes were that bright. “An embarrassment to admit they weren’t safe in London...” John narrowed his eyes. “Or an embarrassment to admit they were in London.” John studied Sherlock’s expression. “And who do we know who might be able to stop such a story reaching the press.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “We wouldn’t necessarily know this person.”

John smiled. “But as it happens, we do.”

Sherlock grinned and turned back to the wall. “As it happens.”

“Whose database have you been in?” John asked.

Sherlock moved one end of a piece of red yarn, then another.

John got up and stared at Sherlock’s computer. He whistled and clicked several tabs. “Whose database haven’t you been in,” he murmured.

“A bit of internecine warfare,” John said.

“That Mycroft would prefer not break out here,” Sherlock replied.

John clicked another tab. “Did he help thwart the kidnapping?”

“No,” Sherlock replied, re-positioning another string, “he was monitoring.” Sherlock stepped off the couch. “It’s his favourite activity.” He leaned past John and hit a key. “He had it cleaned up though.” 

John scanned the tiny paragraph about an attempted mugging near the south side of Regent’s Park. “‘Assailant driven off by concerned passers-by.’” John read aloud. “That was it?” John exclaimed.

“Hmm,” Sherlock replied. “Passers-by wielding automatic weapons with suppressors. If we’d had access sooner, I could have had casings. As it is, all I found was a scored paling and tree root and some blood-contaminated soil.”

John shook his head. “They should have replaced, or at least painted, the paling.”

“Mycroft’s staff are slipping,” Sherlock agreed, “although I might not have located the damaged root without it.”

“You’re sure he ordered the clean-up?” 

“A small nettle near the tree provided fibres from the type of coveralls used by British security services,” Sherlock explained.

“Maybe someone else was protecting the participants who used the same supplier,” John suggested.

“The coveralls are treated with a solution upon arrival, a unique chemical wash, to mark them on a microscopic level,” Sherlock said.

John considered the slight flush on Sherlock's cheeks. “Yours,” he said.

“I was young and showing off,” Sherlock countered.

“And Mycroft still uses it?”

“He’s not a complete idiot,” Sherlock said.

*** 

“Any update on my brief for the reception at the Turkish Embassy tonight?” Anthea enquired.

Mycroft looked over his laptop at her. “Don’t mention to His Excellency that you’ve found a new use for his New Year’s gift,” Mycroft replied.

Anthea glanced at the colourfully hand-painted ceramic dish from which Red was eating the kitten kibble Alistair had acquired. She nodded.

“Tell Alistair he may join you,” Mycroft said, “I shall walk home.” His attention returned to his computer.

“The rain is supposed to get worse,” Anthea remarked. From the corner of her eye, she caught the slight movement as Red switched from the kibble to the spring water in the crystal ashtray from the Austrian chancellor.

“Assuredly,” Mycroft replied without looking up. 

Anthea closed the door quietly as she left. 

*** 

“So the fibres you found by the tree were treated with that?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded.

“But why did Mycroft wait for weeks to share information?”

“Kit didn’t return from his holiday, as certain people expected he would not, however, his motorbike helmet was found a few days ago, during pruning and clearing work along a motorway that leads to Ramsgate,” Sherlock said. 

“Very sloppy work for a professional,” John said.

“Unless the professional never caught up with the fleeing witness because the boy was faster than they expected and then someone or something unprofessional intervened,” Sherlock said, moving to study the clippings on the wall. “There were a lot of fingerprints on those notes that weren’t Kit’s or Amar’s,” Sherlock said. 

“Well, yeah,” John said.

***

The squares of light faded from the wall. The ventilator fan hummed. 

Red made another circuit of the room, nosed at the corners, rubbed against the chair legs, sniffed along the bottom of the iron doors again. He passed the cardboard litter tray, stopped at the mirrored panel, stood pressing his paws against it, tail swishing slowly.

Mycroft’s mobile thrummed along the surface of his desk. 

Red’s ears swivelled. 

As he tapped at the small screen, Mycroft’s lips grew thinner. 

Ears flat against his head, belly brushing the stone floor, Red approached the desk and rounded its corner. 

Mycroft pushed the mobile aside with a flick of two fingers and resumed reading on his computer. The lines at the corners of his mouth remained turned down.

Red crept under the desk, sniffed the toes of Mycroft’s shoes, the heels, the cuffs of his trousers. He batted at the laces, bit at the tip of one then stretched across the instep of the shoe resting flat on the floor and closed his eyes. 

*** 

Sherlock’s phone pinged. 

John picked it up, checked the screen and handed it to Sherlock. “You contacted Interpol.”

“Jean-Pierre has been very useful. I might thank Lestrade sometime,” Sherlock said, scrolling through the text. “Three!” he shouted, brushing past John and grabbing John’s laptop.

“Too many windows open on yours?” John asked, moving to peer over Sherlock’s shoulder. 

*** 

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, arms stretching out and legs extending until they reached beyond the polished surface of his desk. A small, warm weight slid away. He folded his limbs in again, closed his computer and stood. “Enough,” he murmured, tucking the laptop beneath his arm and plucking his umbrella from its stand. “Enough.”

*** 

“Oh, what an interesting chain the three of you make,” Sherlock murmured, fingers a blur over the keys. “Well, two now. As of this morning, that one is with us no more.” He pointed at a photograph on the screen. 

“Maritime-and-coastguard-agency,” John read from the address line. “Joseph X. Bloggston,” he read from beneath the photo. “Seriously?”

“And look where his body was found,” Sherlock said.

“Afloat in Ramsgate Harbour,” John said. “He'd stayed in the area all these weeks?”

“Stayed or came back from looking elsewhere,” Sherlock said, “which might indicate that he didn’t find Kit wherever else he looked.”

*** 

The pause in the narrow space between the first iron door leading from Mycroft’s office and the second would have been barely noticeable to a hypothetical witness, time for a last thought before committing to the termination of the day, for a quick review of items gathered to be taken along, for small legs to race across the room. There was no one to see, no surveillance at surveillance’s source.

*** 

“You think Kit might not be dead?” John asked.

“It’s a possibility,” Sherlock said, drumming his fingers on the table. “Perhaps he’s as good as dead.”

***

The umbrella tapped a rhythm against the concrete. Cones of fluorescent light revealed the disused railroad tracks in the dark channel to Mycroft’s left, reflected off the white tiles to his right. The occasional empty file cabinet or stack of boxes threw a shadow up against the wall.

Red trotted behind Mycroft to his right, skirting the obstacles.

They crossed beneath The Mall, paused for Mycroft to press numbers into the keypad of another iron door and passed under Admiralty Arch.

The hollow thud of an empty box hitting the concrete reverberated through the tunnel. Mycroft lifted his umbrella as he turned. There was a scrabbling sound; a low, undulating growl. 

From behind the box, a pointed snout emerged. 

Red crouched, blocking the way out from between the stack of cartons and the fallen box. He hissed. 

Teeth bared, the rat reared. Mid-jump, it flew sideways. A metre beyond, a trail of white dust marked the progress of the bullet scoring the surface of the concrete. 

Red hissed again, his fur a cloud around his nearly flattened form.

Mycroft lowered his umbrella, took out his mobile. “There aren’t supposed to be any of those down here,” he said as he walked away, tapping at it.

Red turned his head and watched. When Mycroft disappeared around a corner, Red’s ears pricked up and he sprang after him. 

*** 

“He’s been unconscious for the whole month?” John asked the young nurse.

“Not exactly,” he replied, his eyes darting away from John to check what Sherlock was doing by the hospital bed. “The patient appears awake sometimes. He’ll say ‘hi’ or ‘good morning’ and ask whether it’s raining, but if we ask his name or where he lives, he’ll close his eyes and we won’t be able to wake him for hours, sometimes days, so we stopped asking.”

“He always enquires about the weather when he appears conscious?” Sherlock asked.

The nurse shook his head. “He always asks if it’s raining.”

“It’s about time one of you lot made it ‘round,” a voice said from behind them. 

The nurse stood up straighter.

John turned to greet the newcomer. Sherlock flicked a quick glance at the door, but remained facing the nurse with whom they had been speaking, studying his expression.

A middle-aged woman walked into the room, lips pressed thin, eyes narrowed. “Look at the lad,” she said, waving her arm towards the bed. “Somewhere, someone’s frantic about him and the comfort of a friend or relative would do wonders for his recovery.” She stopped in front of Sherlock, a good foot shorter than him, and looked him up and down.

John had seen commanding officers do that with tall recruits. One glance took inches off one’s height. John used the technique. It was all in the bearing.

Sherlock finally turned to her, his eyes dropping to her name tag and back to her eyes. He held them for a moment. “E. Featherstonehaugh,” he recited. He took out his phone, thumbed it a few times. “States here that the report was made by F. Stonehaugh. Might that be you?”

“The clot,” Ms Featherstonehaugh said. “He never was the brightest thing and all the nights down the pub haven’t sharpened his wits. What else did the fool get wrong?”

The young nurse had taken a step backwards, eyes flicking between his matron and a detective inspector come all the way down from London. 

John thought Lestrade’s warrant card was getting a proper work-out.

“Let’s see,” Sherlock said, sliding his finger across the screen then glancing at Kit’s silent form in the bed. “I don’t imagine that you estimated this patient’s age as thirty-two?”

Ms Featherstonehaugh sighed. “’Twenty, twenty-three at the most’ was what I said.”

“Perhaps you didn’t say he was intoxicated?” Sherlock continued.

“I specifically said he wasn’t. We’d tested his blood by then. Pity we couldn’t use what he was drenched with. It wasn’t as bad as it looked, but he had lost a fair amount,” Matron replied.

“You brought him into the hospital after finding him ‘drunk by the side of the motorway’,” Sherlock read.

The woman took a deep breath. “I did bring him in and I did find him on the side of the motorway, holding onto the pole of an adverse camber sign about mid-way between Ramsgate and here. From the car I couldn’t tell if he was drunk and injured or only injured, but I could see the blood on his face by the light of the headlamps. Apparently, Lionel latched onto the word he’s most familiar with.”

Sherlock looked over at Kit. “And you didn’t say he was 197.5 centimetres tall.”

“167.5,” Matron replied. “We’d taken his height and weight, also, although I could have estimated it within a centimetre or two once he was on a stretcher. He had been draped around the signpost and all curled in on himself in the car.”

“You didn’t call an ambulance?” Sherlock said.

“He was bleeding and the ambulance would not have got to us and on to a hospital as fast as I could bring him here straight,” Matron said.

“To where you work,” Sherlock clarified.

Matron nodded. 

“You assumed a risk,” Sherlock noted.

The matron’s posture had relaxed somewhat during the conversation. She drew herself up again at this remark. “To save a life, I would,” she stated and raised her chin.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked from her face to John’s and back.

“I know the shortest route to this hospital from anywhere up to fifty miles from here,” Matron said as though giving a report. “And Agnes had the late shift in the A&E that night and she is very good with trauma.” 

“You have two sons his age and you’d want someone to help them,” Sherlock said.

Ms Featherstonehaugh’s gaze did not waver and she did not ask how Sherlock knew. “I have made similar decisions all my professional life,” she stated. 

“But it adds to the empathy when a patient reminds one of one’s own children,” Sherlock said. “Perhaps you could supply us with more details which might help us piece together what happened that night.”

Matron pursed her lips and kept looking at Sherlock. Finally, she nodded.

*** 

The black door opened a crack. Mrs Hudson peered out. “Oh, Mycroft, good morning.” She looked over her shoulder, body pressed close to the door. “Let me just check where Gray is before I let you in,” she whispered. The door clicked shut.

Mycroft glanced at the tables in front of Speedy’s and took a deep, fresh-baked pastry-laden breath. 

Behind him, Red sat upright in the well of the open car door, tail twitching.

“All clear,” Mrs Hudson announced as she flung the door wide and stepped back for Mycroft to enter. “They’re out again, I’m afraid.” She started to close the door. “Haven’t been back since last night.”

Red leapt onto the pavement and slipped into the hallway.

“Oh,” Mrs Hudson said to him as the door clicked shut. “Come for a visit, have you? Good thing I didn’t catch your tail.” 

“Returned from a visit actually,” Mycroft said, taking a small envelope from his pocket and handing it to Mrs Hudson. “If you could give Sherlock this when he returns it would be most helpful.” 

Red was sat three steps up the staircase, tail curled around his front paws, eyes on Mycroft.

“I’ve no idea when that’ll be though,” she said, tapping a corner of the envelope against her chin.

Mycroft gave a small smile. “Whenever they do appear will be fine.” He reached out for the door handle. “Thank you,” he said and was outside before Mrs Hudson could say another word.

Red jumped off the steps and ran to the door. It was closed when he reached it. He curved his claws between the door and the jamb and pulled.

“Oh dear,” Mrs Hudson said. “Maybe he’s going on a trip and thought you’d be less lonely here.” She bent down and stroked Red’s back. “Would have been nice of him to explain, but neither of them are much for that.”

Red kept digging at the wood.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discoveries.
> 
> Excerpt: “If we have unknown kitten-size mammals in the house, Mrs Hudson will not be pleased,” Sherlock said, massaging Gray’s back.
> 
> “Isn’t it Gray’s job to chase interlopers out of his territory?” John asked, his elbows spreading to either side along the mantel for support. 
> 
> “Maybe that’s why it ran out the door,” Sherlock replied and sat down on the stairs.

~~~~~~~o0o~~~~~~~

“I’m so tired I can barely see,” John said as his key scratched futilely across metal for the third time.

“You can barely see because it’s still dark and the streetlamp is behind you casting your shadow over the lock,” Sherlock said.

John took a step to one side and his key slid neatly into the keyhole. “OK, the light helped,” he admitted and stumbled over the threshold. “Maybe that hotel near Ramsgate wouldn’t have been as bad as it looked.”

“It would have been worse...” Sherlock began. He looked at his feet. “I think Gray slipped out.”

“Too quiet to be Gray,” John said, feeling about on the wall. “Mrs Hudson’s moved the light switch.”

“Something kitten-sized rubbed past my ankle,” Sherlock stated, closing the door.

A sharp meow sounded above their heads and the dark was filled by a rapid drumming puctuated by ever louder mews.

John found the light switch. Gray galloped into view. 

Sherlock reached out until one gloved hand gripped a riser half-way up the first flight of stairs. 

Gray ran up Sherlock’s arm and thrust his nose into Sherlock’s ear then his neck and his hair.

John leaned against the mantelpiece. “Did you train him to do that?”

Sherlock ignored the question. “If we have unknown kitten-size mammals in the house, Mrs Hudson will not be pleased,” he said, massaging Gray’s back.

“Isn’t it Gray’s job to chase interlopers out of his territory?” John asked, his elbows spreading to either side along the mantel for support. 

“Maybe that’s why it ran out the door,” Sherlock replied and sat down on the stairs. 

The envelope Mycroft left fell to the floor.

Three pairs of eyes focussed on the white rectangle.

John eased himself down and picked it up.

A blue post-it note had been added to the blank front of the envelope. John angled it to the light. “I don’t know why they make these in blue, I can hardly see the writing.

Sherlock held out his hand. John smacked the paper against Sherlock’s palm.

“Well, Mycroft’s come calling again. At least we missed that,” Sherlock said. He turned the post-it note over. “Check the street. He brought Red back.”

John balanced himself between the doorframe and the door handle, opened the door and peered out. “Oh,” he said. 

“Still there?” Sherlock asked. He stood, gloved hand heavy on Gray’s back. 

“Under the streetlamp by the kerb, like he’s about to hail a cab,” John replied. “Or sing a song.”

Sherlock looked over John’s shoulder. “He thinks the car is coming back.”

John twisted about to see Sherlock’s expression, but the angle and the light were wrong.

“We’ve got to lure him inside,” Sherlock said, tapping the envelope against John’s hand. “Let him smell that and lead him this way.”

“He’s not keen on me as it is,” John remarked, “and now you want me to deceive him?” 

A bus turned onto Baker Street. Red crouched as it rumbled past, but held his ground.

“Determined little bugger,” John said. “He’s more likely to follow you.”

“And then we’d have Gray out there as well,” Sherlock said.

“Fine. Give it here,” John sighed and grabbed the envelope. “I hope this works.”

*** 

"They returned shortly before dawn," Anthea said, standing before Mycroft's desk, the tip of one finger pressed against the edge of it.

Mycroft turned a page in the file he was reading. "Where did we pick them up?"

"In front of Baker Street, sir," Anthea replied.

Mycroft raised his head. "Nothing before?"

Anthea shook her head. "Not a thing."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "So we don't know where they've been or what they've found."

Anthea nodded.

"And inside Baker Street?"

"The video is a sunrise over the Thames and the audio is the first few bars of 'Romulus and Remus' on a loop," Anthea replied.

"I should send the head of technical services over there for a tutorial." Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. "So we don't know whether Sherlock received the envelope."

"We do," Anthea said. "I sent you the relevant clip."

Mycroft sighed and reached for his laptop.

 

*** 

John walked into the sitting room towelling his hair. “You haven’t even taken your coat off,” he said. 

“Gray’s comfortable,” Sherlock replied and gestured towards a shoe under the desk and a mound of blue cashmere next to his laptop as evidence that he had undressed some.

Gray was draped over the coat collar, head snuggled beneath Sherlock’s ear, asleep.

John ran his hand along Sherlock’s free shoulder. “Mycroft would be pleased to know you’re giving his message top priority.”

Sherlock glanced up. “That was blatantly manipulative, John. It works better if one is subtle.”

“Words of the master,” John replied, leaning closer to see what Sherlock had on the screen.

“It’s one of the fingerprints from the money that neither Jean-Pierre nor I could match.” Sherlock held up the card that had been in the envelope, “and these are the names that go with it.”

“Why is Mycroft feeding you clues?” John asked.

“Why, indeed,” Sherlock said, turning. He sniffed. “You used the shampoo I made for you.”

“Yup.”

“I made that weeks ago and you haven’t touched it,” Sherlock said, turning further in the chair. “Why tonight?”

John gazed at the skin exposed by the open collar of Sherlock’s shirt then lifted his eyes until they reached Sherlock’s mouth.

“I thought you were so tired you could barely see,” Sherlock said.

“Vision isn’t strictly required,” John replied, smoothing his hand down Sherlock’s sleeve. 

“Ah.” Sherlock glanced at the ginger tail protruding from behind the curtain and thumping rhythmically against the top of the bookcase. He closed the laptop and dropped the note on the table. “I believe it would do Mycroft good to wait.”

John turned on his heel and headed towards the bedroom, the belt of his dressing gown skimming across the floor behind him.

Sherlock unhooked Gray, sat him on the coils of scarf and followed.

*** 

“Did he watch it?” Alistair asked outside the door of Mycroft's office.

“He’s watching it now,” Anthea replied, heading towards the lift.

“Shall I bin these?” Alistair tapped his chin on the stack of disposable litter trays in his arms.

The door of the lift opened.

“Tuck them in a cupboard,” Anthea answered.

Alistair raised his eyebrows. So did his reflection in the closed steel door.

 

***

“A goldfish, trapped in a bowl, is helpless,” Sherlock announced apropos of nothing obvious.

John folded back his newspaper, followed Sherlock’s line of sight from where he was stretched on the sofa with his laptop on his chest. Sherlock was looking over its screen to where Red was perched on the northeast corner of the desk, staring down at the pavement. 

A sturdy double dish of kibble and water was positioned next to him. Sherlock had moved it there. “He only leaves to use the litter tray,” Sherlock had said when John had expressed the view that they did not need any more clutter on the desk. Afterwards, he had realised he had not seen Red in the kitchen since his return.

“If it weren’t for the traffic, I almost think he could track him down,” Sherlock mused. 

“No accounting for taste,” John said.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched.

“We could give him a lift to the Diogenes,” John suggested.

“Mycroft’s out of the country,” Sherlock said, “or being held incommunicado in some deep bunker.”

“Deeper than his office?” John replied.

The crescent-shaped creases in Sherlock’s cheek grew. “I used his security codes to access files on Brunswick, also known as Ashbourne, also known as Old Kinderhook more than a half hour ago and haven’t received a text from him yet. Much as he’s slipping in his dotage, that’s too long unless Mycroft’s somewhere remote.”

“Aren’t retinal scans or some such required for that?” John asked.

Sherlock turned to John and grinned. “Mycroft may have some difficulties when next he seeks access.”

“You replaced his with yours?” John asked.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“Amazing.” John laughed.

“Come see what I found.”

*** 

The flat was quiet, the street nearly so. Red jumped from the table to the chair to the carpet. He walked to the window, pressed his nose against the glass. The reflections of the traffic lights changed from amber to red in the windows over the road. Red stood on his hind feet, pressed his front paws against the glass. Through the balcony railing, the glow of the traffic lights shone green in the dark windows. Red butted his head against the glass.

*** 

“Listen,” Sherlock said as John walked into the room with two white bags and a wad of serviettes.

John stopped, heard a car door close. At the window, he saw Red draw back from where he had been leaning over the edge of the table. Faintly, the tinkle of the bell over the door to Speedy’s could be heard through the glass.

“You knew someone had pulled up because Red moved,” John said, depositing the food on the coffee table and going back to the kitchen.

“At first, the curve of his spine changed,” Sherlock replied, “then the tilt of his ears.”

John returned with a glass in each hand. “Like a hunter in a blind, no sudden moves to alert the quarry.” He set the glasses down and nudged Sherlock’s legs.

Sherlock lifted them like a drawbridge. John sat and pulled the table closer. The drawbridge lowered.

“They aren’t domestic animals,” Sherlock said.

With the glass he was holding out towards Sherlock, John motioned towards Gray, who was nestled between the Union Jack cushion on the arm of the sofa and Sherlock’s neck. “He looks pretty domestic.”

“What’s this?” Sherlock asked, not taking the glass.

“Test it,” John said.

Sherlock scowled at the glass as he closed his hand around it and inhaled. “Plum,” he said and tasted the golden liquid. “You went back to Hideo’s.” 

John settled into his corner of the sofa and watched Sherlock take another sip. “You liked theirs when we went last.” 

Sherlock rested the glass on his stomach and rubbed a couple fingers along Gray’s back. A loud purr emerged from beneath Sherlock’s hair. “He’s there because I’m warm and I feed him.” 

John snorted.

“Fine, you do now, but I did at first, during the milk-in-the-syringe phase,” Sherlock retorted. “It made a lasting impression.”

Gray uncurled himself and walked across Sherlock’s chest to the table. He inspected both bags and settled against the one nearest John. 

“The soup’s in that bag,” Sherlock said. 

“Is he hunting for your dinner?” John asked.

“He caught me a moth last night,” Sherlock said.

“He gave it to you?” John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “He showed it to me before he ate it. He executed quite a remarkable jump to swipe it from the air.”

“Well, if he ate it, I think it was for him,” John countered.

“It had designs on my coat,” Sherlock replied, pulling the other bag closer. “Or my scarf. Possibly both. It was a large moth.”

“So he was defending your possessions?” John queried.

“Yes.” Sherlock turned on his side, opened the bag and peered inside.

“My mother’s cat used to give her birds, sometimes dead, sometimes not, but they were definitely for her. The cat didn’t eat them,” John said. 

Sherlock stopped moving. John rarely spoke of his family or his childhood or of the past at all.

“I used to be jealous, but it was her cat. She’d had her before she had Harry or me, from when she was studying to be a midwife.”

Sherlock took a quiet, shallow breath. 

“We moved, when I was four, to a house with a garden and a small patio. There was a grape arbour along the side of the patio by the garden wall and at the end of the patio there was a birdbath. It was the same colour as the flower pots and the tiles and the cat liked to doze half in the sun, half in the shade at its foot.”

“Not a very clever place to put a birdbath.” Sherlock snapped his mouth closed after the last word. 

He felt John lean forward, heard him put his glass down and open the other bag. “It’s true, but I didn’t realise it then. It was nice under the grape vines. That corner got a lot of sun and it would come through the leaves and make patterns on the patio tiles and the water in the birdbath would glitter. My mother could look out and see me from the kitchen window, so I was allowed to be there alone if I stayed right on the patio. I remember being very pleased that I could do that without having to have Harry with me.” 

John set the cartons of soup on the table and pushed one towards Sherlock.

“The birds came to eat the grapes and Bell wouldn’t move. They’d splash in the bird bath and Bell wouldn’t move.” 

John dropped a couple serviettes near Sherlock.

“But when they hopped to the rim of the bath and launched themselves into the air, Bell would jump and when she landed, she’d have one in her jaws.” John stirred his soup with his chopsticks. “And she’d go straight into the house with it.” 

“You didn’t cry,” Sherlock said.

John shook his head. “I remember thinking that that was a real present.”

“Hm,” Sherlock murmured, unwrapping his chopsticks and remembering the cabbie. 

 

*** 

“It’s most kind of you to store the lad’s motorbike,” John said, throwing the tarpaulin they had brought with them over the vehicle.

“He’ll be relieved to have it safe, when he’s to rights,” Matron said as she walked out of the shed, Sherlock and John close behind. John pulled the door shut and clicked the lock in place. Ms Featherstonehaugh reached past him and gave the padlock a tug. 

“It was the information you gave me which allowed us to locate it so quickly,” Sherlock said.

John looked up from dusting his hands off on his jeans, brows furrowed.

“Observation is crucial to both our professions, Detective Inspector,” Matron said. She pressed her lips together before she spoke again. “He must have missed a payment on it by now. Should I call one of you if someone comes around looking to take it away?”

Sherlock held out a hand to John. He stared at it an instant before reaching inside his jacket for his notebook and writing both their numbers on a blank page. He ripped it out and handed it to Sherlock.

“The motorbike is his, free and clear,” Sherlock said, “and as soon as we are able to notify his next of kin, we will inform you of his identify so the young man’s name can be added to his records. I’m sure a relative will be following shortly thereafter.” Sherlock passed along the note. “However, if anyone seeks to visit before we have contacted you, please deny them access and call us directly.”

“Someone ran him off the road that night?” Matron asked.

Sherlock shook his head. “The rain caused the accident. He skidded on the turn, was dragged over the verge, lost his grip on the bike which kept going under the fencing across the corner of the field and finally stalled out beneath the hedgerow.”

Matron looked straight at Sherlock. “He’s in trouble,” she said.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes before raising his eyebrows and giving a faint nod. “Continued anonymity would be in his best interests for a while longer.”

Matron gave Sherlock a decisive nod back.

*** 

Alistair twisted in the co-pilot’s seat and stood. Endless sunlight bleached the sky and set the ice fields beneath them aglitter. He turned away and closed his eyes. Points of light flashed behind his lids. He pushed the sunglasses to the top of his head and eased out the door of the flight deck.

It was twilight in the cabin, the darkness diluted by the laser white glare surrounding each closed window. Two figures breathed the grey air. He stopped by one, touched a hand to a round shoulder. Anthea’s eyes opened instantly. She nodded and he stepped away, shed clothes as she rose and walked barefoot to the closet. Garment bag over her shoulder, she disappeared into the lavatory. He stretched out on the warm cushions, pulled the thin blanket up to his chin and inhaled. He did not close his eyes until she had slipped onto the flight deck with the briefest flash of sunshine. He was sure he could sleep forever, but he only had five hours. It was as much as either of them had had at a stretch for the previous two days. Alistair was fairly sure Mycroft had had none at all.

*** 

“’Coincidence’. Really?” John said. “I can’t even read the word without your voice echoing in my head about the universe and laziness.”

Sherlock swiped his thumb across the screen of Kit’s mobile once more. “Unless the cat was an operative tasked with stopping Kit from getting away with the photographs, I’d say it was a coincidence that he ran her over a few steps from our front door.”

“Moments before you arrived home?”

“Even so,” Sherlock said.

John got up from his chair to press a hand to Sherlock’s forehead. A grey paw swatted at his wrist when he did. “Oi, he was mine first,” John said, removing his hand. “Well, you don’t have a fever.” 

“She was making her rounds,” Sherlock said, pausing to stare at the screen of his mobile again. “The sea food restaurant over the road closes before the pub on the corner. She had a routine.”

John sat on the coffee table. “What, you brought a photo along with you? To all the places to eat near here?”

Sherlock’s thumb hovered over the mobile screen. “The stomach contents narrowed the range a bit,” he murmured.

John’s shoulders slumped. “I stop in at that pub now and then. I never saw her about.”

“She’d call at closing time when the rubbish was set out. Some of the staff put leftover fish aside for her.” Sherlock glanced at John. “People become remarkably chatty if you show them cat photos on your phone. There’s a direct correlation between their volubility and the immaturity of the cat.”

John shook his head. “The cats are ploys in your investigations now?”

Sherlock sat up. Gray clung in place.

John pointed at Sherlock’s shoulder. “He thinks he’s your parrot,” John said. Gray blinked at John and curled his tail around himself once more.

Sherlock patted Gray and smiled. “Let’s go have a pint at the pub.”

John’s eyebrows rose.

“There’s someone else who often stops in near closing time.”

*** 

It was hazy when they landed, the wet runway reflecting the plane’s lights back at the sky. First out, Alistair avoided the rain filling the pits in the tarmac’s surface as he set the two pieces of luggage next to the steps. It was a seldom used air field. The small facility it served was hidden by the trees crumbling the edge of the air strip with their roots. The scent of rain lingered on the breeze rustling their leaves.

A black car pulled up to the foot of the stairs. Doors opened. Alistair stowed the cases in the boot. Anthea descended, the only hairs out of place the ones the wind blew. He took the two garment bags she carried, spread them flat over the cases. Mycroft appeared, umbrella over his arm, attaché case in hand. The wind died. He and Anthea slid into either side of the car. The driver closed the back doors after them, handed Alistair the keys and mounted the stairs to relieve the pilot. Alistair settled behind the wheel and set them in motion. As they bumped onto the access road, he saw the plane take-off in the rear view mirror. 

Above the forest, the rain resumed. Only the occasional drop reached them as the road snaked about the old trees until the ground swallowed it and metal doors shut behind them.

*** 

John closed the front door quickly. “Mrs Hudson’s very good as a decoy.”

“Yes. That feather-on-a-string thing was an astute purchase on her part,” Sherlock replied. “Gray might have been an asset if we were looking to engage people seated outside the pub in conversation, but tonight it’s listening we need to do and inside the pub is where we need to do it.”

“Pity they won’t have any food this late. I’m starving again,” John said. “It was so busy at the surgery, I forgot about lunch until it was nearly time to go home.”

They eased past the crowd of smokers on the pavement. Sherlock swept his glance over each one as he held the door open for John. “I’ll order olives,” Sherlock said.

It was quieter inside, several tables empty. “Grab that one,” Sherlock said, pointing to a corner table, his voice conversational. 

John heard the minute shift to a role. He ambled towards the table, seated himself facing the door, the bar and Sherlock in easy view with a slight tilt of the head. John watched Sherlock order. He was slouching against the bar, chatting a bit to the barman, angled so the man who had been there when they came in might feel included if he was so inclined. He appeared to be listening. The barman placed two packets of crisps and a couple other packets John could not see clearly on the counter. 

Two women passed in front of John’s table on the way to the ladies. They trailed the scent of tobacco and cooler air. John spared them a casual look. When they were gone, Sherlock was crossing the room.

The stack of small bowls clinked as he set them down, the top one filled with black olives and oil. He dropped the various packets around them.

“Not many olives,” John remarked.

“Kebab later?” Sherlock asked amiably. He leaned closer, hand on the table crinkling a packet of peanuts as he continued, “Going for a smoke after I bring the pints.”

John almost protested. 

Sherlock ripped open the peanuts, poured a few in his hand and turned away. 

John made short work of the crisps, pleased that at least they were salt and vinegar. He tried an olive, hummed and ate another. 

Sherlock had regained the bar, others had as well. Closing time approached. Sherlock squeezed a bit closer to the man still lingering there to reach the pints waiting for him. A moment later, the glasses thumped against the table.

“They’re not bad,” John admitted around an olive pit.

“Be right back,” Sherlock said, cigarettes already in hand.

“Last call,” the barman shouted.

Sherlock fought the incoming tide to gain the pavement. 

John watched him light his cigarette through the window. He speared another olive. When he looked out again, Sherlock was gone.

*** 

Mycroft leaned the file against the edge of the table and closed his eyes for a second longer than a blink. It afforded a tiny escape from the monumental demonstration of idiocy being laid out before him. He drew in a breath and gazed around the small conference table. The colonel in charge and the two most senior research scientists at the facility gazed anxiously back at him. Mycroft did not need to ask pursuant to whose orders the foreign dignitaries had been allowed to visit part of the installation. The pained expression the colonel was almost succeeding in suppressing made it very clear.

Colonel Sutton’s hand had been ever so faintly unsteady when he had held out the slim file. Its contents were the sort that ended careers. Mycroft had absorbed the salient facts of the debacle as he leafed through the folder. Now he wished to observe his three interlocutors and see if the line between stupidity and culpability had been crossed.

“If you would take me through the sequence of events, Colonel,” Mycroft said.

“Yes, sir,” Colonel Sutton said and took a deep breath. 

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, keeping the colonel and both the scientists in view as Sutton explained the staff’s recreational attempts to determine which of the most popular domestic pets was smartest. Sutton’s tone was neutral, his wording bland, but the scientists nodded as he progressed and nearly smiled at several points. 

“...the staff are isolated here for months at a time and the options for amusement are limited. It’s one of the reasons the civilians were allowed to bring pets,” Sutton said. “We don’t have playing fields and a little friendly competition between the teams that formed around the opposing viewpoints was good for morale.”

“Canidae versus Felidae,” Mycroft murmured. It had the desired effect. The muscles in Sutton’s jaw relaxed marginally and both scientists leaned forward.

“We developed ideas in the games that have benefitted our research projects with other species,” interjected the scientist on Sutton’s left, Dr Agarwal. “The inter-specialism of the teams was perfect for brainstorming.”

“For example?” Mycroft nudged softly.

The scientists leaned closer. “It’s where we came up with the idea of teaching the animals the Morse code for certain nouns and verbs,” Dr Skye said.

Mycroft let his eyebrows rise a little and understood what ‘communication techniques’ had meant in the file report. “And they learned?”

“At the initial dosage, only a few words,” Dr Skye replied.

“And the differences were striking,” Dr Agarwal said. 

Mycroft tilted his head and kept his eyes on her.

“Our cohort was small, we only had four dogs and six cats of different ages and breeds initially, but...” She glanced at Dr Skye. “The dogs learned ‘walk’ and ‘food’ first. The cats ‘return’ and ‘open’.”

“I believe that domestic animals can communicate these things already with sounds and gestures,” Mycroft said.

Dr Agarwal smiled. “In the presence of a person, yes. Our pets learned to communicate remotely.”

Mycroft nodded encouragingly.

“We put panels in the staff quarters where animals resided at various levels suited to their size. They were installed in the walls rather than the floors, so accidental pressures would be minimised,” Skye said.

“What material did you use for the panels?” Mycroft asked.

“We had a lot of spare glass remaining from outfitting the laboratories,” Sutton supplied.

“So the apparatus behind them was visible?” Mycroft enquired, a certain memory replaying as he spoke.

“No, one-way mirror was used. We have large sections in almost all the laboratories for unobtrusive observation,” Sutton said.

“I see,” Mycroft said. “And then?”

*** 

The throng at the bar was thinning. Most were outside again, laughter a little louder, balance less steady. John reached across the table and poured half of Sherlock’s bitter into his glass. When he set it down again, Sherlock was at the bar, just behind the man who had been there when they first came in and who did not seem to have moved. John wondered if he was dating the barman.

Sherlock popped a few peanuts in his mouth as he sauntered towards the table and sat down. “They play poker together,” he said, leaning across the table to give John the rest of the packet.

“I see,” John said, but he did not see, except that Sherlock had understood what he was thinking from across the room. John pictured the most lascivious thing he could imagine and stared straight at Sherlock.

Sherlock glanced at the table and ran his fingertips along the grain of the oak. “We could skip the kebab,” he said.

John considered the pale hand against the darkened wood. “I’ll pass out if I don’t eat some actual food soon,” he replied, thinking that his manoeuvre had back-fired because there was regret in his tone. 

“We’ll get it to go,” Sherlock said, standing. “But keep the position in mind.”

John finished his ale and wondered how Sherlock could possibly know that.

Sherlock winked at John from the open door before swirling out. John banged his glass down and followed.

*** 

Mycroft folded his hands on top of the folder. “You hadn’t intended to breed the animals?”

“The litter came as a surprise,” Dr Agarwal explained. “Randolph had adopted two kittens shortly before arriving here under the impression that the animals had been neutered at the rescue centre where he acquired them.”

“When it became clear that the young female was pregnant, it offered an exciting opportunity to observe if any of the parents’ learned behaviours might be passed on to their offspring,” Skye added immediately.

“Then one of the resultant litter going missing was surely a cause for concern?” Mycroft remarked.

“We thought he might have got out of Randolph’s quarters and hid,” Agarwal said. She pursed her lips. “Perhaps died.”

“So you would eventually nose him out beneath the stairs,” Mycroft suggested.

“Yes,” Skye admitted, lifting his shoulders and spreading his hands, “although hiding was a strong possibility. Three was a shy kitten, unlike his littermates.”

“You weren’t concerned for the integrity of your official research?” Mycroft asked.

They all shook their heads. “The canteen and the sleeping quarters are carefully sealed off from the laboratories. If the kitten was hiding and coming out at night, it would remain contained in the staff area,” Skye said.

“So Randolph finally reported the unscheduled visit to his quarters by your esteemed guests?” Mycroft said.

“It was unscheduled, but not unauthorised,” Sutton clarified. “One of the guests had voiced concerns about the treatment of the animals being studied and the attitude of the staff towards their test subjects. Their FCO escort looked to me to counter those concerns, so I offered a tour through the staff quarters to let them see the off-duty employees with their own pets. The litter was rather the icing on the cake and did seem to satisfy them. It never occurred to us that one of the visitors would take a kitten away with them.”

Mycroft allowed himself an extra-long blink. “And what changed after all those months?”

“We were in the canteen, celebrating Randolph’s birthday with some drinks and cake, when a colleague said that it would be a great birthday present if the lost kitten showed up,” Agarwal explained. “And Randolph stopped smiling and tapped a finger to his lips.” Dr Agarwal mimicked the action. “’The visitors,’ he said after a moment. ‘The tall one had held the grey kitten and it had mewed and dug his claws into the man’s sleeve when he put it down. I saw him glance at his bodyguard before he turned to go. I’d thought he’d been worried about being scratched. Maybe that wasn’t what that look meant.’ That’s when we realised we had something to report.” 

“Wouldn’t the kitten have meowed from the bodyguard’s pocket or wherever it was concealed,” Mycroft asked.

Skye lifted up his hands. “It’s what one would think. How could someone steal a kitten quietly?”

“They could kill it. Perhaps they wished to study the body. Had you explained your recreational experiment to your visitors?” Mycroft asked. He scanned their faces. One would think first-born children had been involved in his remark.

Dr Agarwal recovered first. “We didn’t explain our games, no,” she said. “We didn’t explain anything unless specifically asked, so we had confined our answers to the research on silk worms and on sheep. In fact, they left with a male lamb.”

Mycroft flipped open the file and tapped a page. “That was the specimen they were given.”

“Yes,” Sutton answered, craning his neck to check the photograph on the page. “It seemed that that was the motivation for the visit, the exchange of agricultural expertise. We weren’t given details, but the visitors made some comments to their escort during the tour.”

Mycroft did not express his view that the details had probably not been thought through before the visit had been arranged. He wondered whether his leaving the country in furtherance of certain national interests was worth the risk of stupidity running rampant in his absence.

“Have any staff with a pet left the facility since your extracurricular experiments began?” Mycroft asked.

All three shook their heads. “No, sir,” Sutton replied.

“Good,” Mycroft said and closed the folder again. “Prior to any proposed departure, you are to contact me for final authorisation.”

“Yes, sir,” Sutton said.

Mycroft took three cards from his waistcoat pocket, set one in front of Colonel Sutton and slid the other two partway across the table. “If you recall any further details or have any interesting developments in your ‘games’, contact me as well.” Doctors Agarwal and Skye reached for the cards. “I will call on you again in a couple months time if nothing out of the ordinary has transpired before then.” Mycroft pushed back his chair and stood. “Now I should like a tour of the staff quarters.” 

*** 

“So where did you go?” John asked when he caught up to Sherlock.

“Back to the flat,” Sherlock answered. “A copy of everything on our gambler’s mobile is now on your laptop and his phone is once more in his pocket.”

“I was watching you and didn’t see a thing,” John exclaimed, ignoring the commandeering of his laptop. It had probably been closer to the door.

“You were also eating,” Sherlock said, fluttering the fingers of one hand, “and I am quick.”

John added a couple details to the image in his head. “So who is that bloke?” John said.

“Kit calls him Uncle Eddie in their email correspondence, but Edgar Thorpe is actually a cousin of Kit’s deceased father. Mr Thorpe possesses a short list of prior convictions for minor offences resulting in fines which Kit’s father often helped him to pay. Recently, _Cousin_ Eddie totted up enough points to earn himself a driving ban,” Sherlock recited.

“So he brought Kit into his latest misadventure because driving was needed,” John concluded.

“Precisely,” Sherlock replied and stopped in front of a small restaurant.

“The Cardboard Box,” John read from the sign. “Isn’t there a place down by New Scotland Yard...” 

“Yes, the owner is branching out. This one stays open later and has a few more tables,” Sherlock said and held open the door.

John’s stomach growled. “That smells fantastic.”

“You’re just _very_ hungry,” Sherlock murmured as John brushed past.

 

*** 

Randolph Huygens was flushed when he caught up with Mycroft and Colonel Sutton outside his quarters. He consulted the screen on a device next to the door. “They’re all in,” he said and slipped his key card through the reader. A small light on the lock glowed green.

“You’ve microchipped them,” Mycroft said as he entered.

Dr Huygens shrugged as he waited for Colonel Sutton to step inside before closing the door behind them. “Barn door and all, I know,” Huygens said, glancing about the room, “but One, Two and Four, their parents and all the other pets can now be tracked.”

As he spoke, there was a flurry of movement. From a high shelf, a plump black-white-and-ginger calico jumped onto the single bed next to it. She walked to the corner of the bed nearest the door and sat up very straight regarding Mycroft. The tip of her tail twitched. A large, grey cat appeared from the shadows beneath the bed and stood between it and the visitors.

Three young adult cats separated themselves from the cushions leaning against the wall along the side of the bed and ranged themselves behind their mother: a solid ginger, a white-and-grey and a smaller calico.

“Is this something you’ve trained them to do, Huygens?” Sutton asked, the formation not lost on him.

“No, sir. I’ve never seen them do that before,” Dr Huygens replied.

“I don’t imagine they encounter many unfamiliar people here,” Mycroft said, watching the animals, “unless there have been other visits of which you should inform me.”

“No,” Huygens and Sutton replied in unison. Sutton added, “sir.”

The cat on point walked forward until he stood nose to toe with Mycroft’s shoes. He sniffed delicately, then with more enthusiasm, wending between Mycroft’s legs to circle each shoe. The older calico jumped down.

“You haven’t been walking through catnip recently, have you?” Dr Huygens asked.

“Not any of which I am aware,” Mycroft replied.

“I suppose new smells are exciting,” Dr Huygens said, reaching for the mobile on his desk. “Would you mind if I filmed this?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said as the younger cats hopped off the bed and joined their parents.

“I’d just do it from the knees down,” Huygens said, phone in hand.

Mycroft frowned. 

Sutton scowled at Huygens. He put the phone back.

Mycroft pivoted in his circle of cats and stared at the mirrored panel next to the bottom third of the door.

“Perhaps when their curiosity is sated, you might persuade one of your clowder to demonstrate that,” he said and waved his hand doorward.

Huygens looked relieved. “I’ve just the thing,” he said, taking a box out of his desk drawer. He pocketed a couple crinkly packets from it. 

The grey cat turned towards the sound.

Huygens strode across the room and was out the door in a thrice. 

The grey left the cluster around Mycroft, walked to the side of the door and raised a paw to the glass. 

Mycroft watched the cat raise and lower its paw repeatedly, then wait. Nothing happened. After a minute, the cat began pressing on the mirror again. A red light above the panel turned green, the door clicked open and the cat slipped out. 

“The animal chose the ‘return’ command first,” Mycroft commented.

Sutton nodded. “They usually do.”

“And the people respond,” Mycroft stated.

Sutton nodded again. “If they can. They're not always free.”

It was Mycroft’s turn to nod. “They have them well trained.”

Sutton did not ask for clarification. 

*** 

Among the greasy wrappers on the coffee table, a mobile buzzed. From his post by the window, Red glanced over his shoulder. Gray looked up from Sherlock’s hair, blinking slowly. The papers rustled as the vibrations moved the phone closer to the edge. John opened an eye, closed it again. The mobile cleared the papers, tipped over the edge. Sherlock held out his hand, caught it. He lifted the screen near his eyes.

“Mycroft is texting you,” he mumbled and let his hand drop to the floor. 

The phone buzzed. 

John lifted his head from Sherlock’s chest, one side of Sherlock’s shirt sticking to his face, the side with the buttons. John peeled it away, leaned over Sherlock’s hip and found the phone. “You could’ve turned it off,” he said.

“What’s he want?” Sherlock asked.

“Why didn’t you read it?” John asked, settling back on Sherlock’s chest with the silent phone tucked up under his chin. 

Sherlock’s arm fell from the back of the sofa onto John’s back. “Your reading it will improve the message,” he replied.

The vibrations of the words tickled John's cheek. “Fine,” he said and peered at the phone to open the message. “He wants to know if Mike Stamford has had his kittens spayed.”

“He didn’t complain about his password?”

John swiped the screen. “Nope. Just the one question.”

“Has he?” Sherlock asked.

“Mike? I don’t know. Last we spoke, he only mentioned the cats to ask whether we’d look after them when his family go on holiday. Said his daughters insisted their kittens could not go to a cattery,” John answered.

“Smart girls,” Sherlock said. He drummed his fingers along John’s spine. “Just out of whatever dark hole he’s been in and Mycroft wants to know that. Why?”

“Shall we ask him?” John enquired, tapping the phone against Sherlock’s stomach.

“No,” Sherlock said.

“Can we go to bed, then?”

“Yes.”

***


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some questions answered. Others raised.
> 
> Excerpt: “We will literally be herding cats.” Anthea consulted her Blackberry. “Interesting expression,” she murmured, typing rapidly on the device.
> 
> “I believe I could write a treatise on the nuances of its meaning,” Mycroft said...

~~~~~~~o0o~~~~~~~

“The number will only be limited by access, how often he is able to roam. Whether any enhancements ‘Three’ may enjoy will have made him more successful in territorial disputes with other males is an unknown. I expect we shall be finding out,” Mycroft finished with a tight smile.

His laptop chimed. He tapped a key and glanced at the message.

“We will literally be herding cats.” Anthea consulted her Blackberry. “Interesting expression,” she murmured, typing rapidly on the device.

“I believe I could write a treatise on the nuances of its meaning,” Mycroft said, looking up at Anthea’s bowed head.

“There’s a former tanning salon for let not far from Baker Street that we could use as a temporary cattery or will a mobile unit do?” she asked, meeting Mycroft’s eye. There was a distant look in it. “Sir?”

Mycroft did not respond.

Anthea waited.

“Ah,” Mycroft said, re-focussing on Anthea. “Let the property and have Dr Flaherty on call for the sterilising and microchipping.”

“Yes, sir,” Anthea replied and turned away. The door closed behind her. The computer chimed again. 

*** 

John set the bag of cat litter on the floor and his other bags on the kitchen table. “Managed re-provisioning without being spirited away in any black cars,” he said, rubbing his shoulder. “Wouldn’t have minded a lift, actually.”

“Have you contacted Mike?” Sherlock asked from the desk.

“Stopped by,” John said, taking a corked bottle from one of the bags and heading for the sitting room. “He hasn’t, although he has an appointment for after their holiday.” He placed the bottle near Sherlock’s elbow. “The kittens recognised me.”

“Early imprinting, very important,” Sherlock murmured.

“They’re so young, I thought they’d forget,” John continued. “You should see how happy Freud and Apgar are with the girls.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock said, opening a new tab and typing.

“Anna, not Sigmund, I was carefully informed,” John said. “At ten, I would probably have named a cat, Blackheath.”

“One of your parents wasn’t a psychiatrist,” Sherlock said, scrolling down a list of search results.

“How do you know?” John teased.

“Once I had your birth certificate...” Sherlock began.

John expelled a long breath. “Fine.”

Sherlock leaned back in his seat and saw the bottle. “What’s this?” he asked, holding it up to the light and narrowing his eyes at the hand-printed label. He sniffed at the stopper.

“There’s a farmers’ market at the weekend near Mike’s house,” John said. “I walked through it and spotted that.”

“Blackberry melomel with wild yeast,” Sherlock read. “There are no quality controls on these sorts of things, John. Anything could be growing in here.” He looked from the label to John.

John grinned. “Thought you might like to experiment with it.”

Red streaked from the bookcase and out the sitting room door. Voices floated up the stairs on a cool gust of air.

“Or we could serve it to Mycroft,” Sherlock said.

*** 

Mycroft finished relating his version of the salient facts and held out a hand for Kit’s phone.

“Arrange for his transfer to Bart’s and for his mother to see him first,” Sherlock said, flipping the mobile between his fingers.

“Fine.” Mycroft took out his phone, pressed a button and got up. 

A dozing Red slid off Mycroft’s shoes.

“A change in plans,” Mycroft said into the mobile as he walked into the hallway. The door clicked shut behind him.

Red arrived a moment too late and stretched up towards the door handle.

John shook his head. “You’ve a ways to grow before you can pull off that trick,” he said.

Red pushed and the door rattled slightly against the jamb.

“Matron,” Sherlock said, glancing out the window as he spoke. The cadences of the hospital tannoy droned through Matron’s reply. “How is your unknown boy?”

Behind Sherlock, the door continued to rattle in its frame. Below, Alistair stood by the Jaguar, mobile to his ear.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, tone dropping with the end of the word. “Today’s developments may be of help, however. His mother will arrive by this evening to identify him and accompany him to an hospital closer to their home. She has been advised to ask for you. Would you be able to stay until she gets there?”

A second car pulled up to the kerb. 

Sherlock nodded as he listened. “I believe you will see the family resemblance, but their personal details cannot be added to his records just yet. In her relief, his mother may call her son by name. It would be best if no other hospital staff heard her do so.”

Anthea alighted from the second car, exchanged a few words with Alistair before getting into the first car with him. 

Sherlock was silent. “We hope to have the matter concluded soon, but until then...” He listened and nodded. “The ambulance attendants will assist you in preparing your patient for transport. They can take the discharge instructions.” Sherlock paused. “You will find all the transfer paperwork has been completed by the time they are with you, despite the lack of name or National Insurance number.” 

Alistair and Anthea drove away.

“There will be someone with them with a van to collect the motorbike. They’ll wait until you’re ready to show them the way to the garage.” Sherlock smiled. “It may well be the first thing he asks about when he regains consciousness.” He nodded. “Please contact me or my colleague if you have any concerns upon their arrival. You still have our numbers?” He nodded again. “Yes, ring once they are all underway. I shall be interested to hear if there are any reactions from your patient. Thank you, Matron.” Sherlock ended the call. 

John cleared his throat.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at him. “What?” he said.

“’Please’ and ‘thank you’ in one conversation?” John said. “I could get used to this persona.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” Sherlock said.

“No change in Kit, I take it,” John said.

Sherlock shook his head. “Matron even told him that his bike had been found with little more than a few scratches on it, but to no avail.” He glanced across the quiet room. “Red gave up?”

“No, he used the door in the kitchen,” John said.

One side of Sherlock’s mouth curved upwards. 

The sitting room door opened. Mycroft came in, putting his mobile away with his right hand, his left arm bent close to his chest with Red stretched along his forearm, face nestled in Mycroft’s palm.

The other side of Sherlock’s mouth curled up.

Mycroft pursed his lips. “It was preferable to having him moutaineer up my trouser leg,” he said. 

Sherlock held out Kit’s mobile and the keys to the motorbike. “The bike needs a little bodywork,” Sherlock said. “I’m sure you have some division that can look after that and getting him a new number plate.”

“You’re most solicitous of your cat killer,” Mycroft remarked, dropping the keys into an outside pocket and turning his attention to the phone.

“Something panicked him on the way to Ramsgate and the well-paying and rather adventurous delivery run for one of Uncle Eddie’s dodgy business deals became a race for his life,” Sherlock said. “Might it have been one of yours he was running from?”

“Two of the ‘passers-by’ followed him,” Mycroft said, hitting several keys on the phone. “I sent someone to divert the ‘concerned citizens’.” 

“I may have turned it off,” Sherlock commented. 

Mycroft hit a few more keys and the phone whistled softly. “Not to worry, brother mine.”

Sherlock huffed and fell back onto the sofa. Gray lifted his head from where he had been sitting on the armrest and put his chin on Sherlock’s sleeve.

Mycroft swiped through the images. “Not transmitted?”

“Not according to the phone’s activity record,” Sherlock said.

“No doubt you were thorough,” Mycroft said, turning towards the door, “but best to double-check.”

“You’re taking Red with you?” John asked.

“He seems intent on coming,” Mycroft replied from the landing.

“You’re not going to have him vivisected or something, are you?” Sherlock asked.

“No-o,” Mycroft answered, “a little blood drawn perhaps.”

Sherlock strode to the hallway. “Bring him back to me when you want it done. Don’t let anyone else do it,” he said.

Mycroft turned on the stair. “Very well. You’ll have the rest of the litter in a few days. Start with them. I’ll send you any updates I get from the little game at the research facility and bring ‘Red’ for a visit when he has a better name.”

“You’re going to keep him?” John said from the doorway.

“I think such determination should be rewarded, don’t you, John?” Mycroft said.

“Perhaps you’re compelled to accede to his demand to ‘R-E-T-U-R-N’,” Sherlock suggested.

“You noticed that,” Mycroft commented, patting Red’s head. His umbrella swung on his arm and hit his knee. He barely winced.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “How will you manage to hold him and your umbrella.”

“We’ll work something out,” Mycroft replied and resumed his descent.

“How many do you think you’ll find?” Sherlock asked.

“Impossible to estimate without more data,” Mycroft called as he turned on the lower landing. “First step is to waylay the sire and examine him.”

“More cat-napping,” John scoffed.

“If you have a better way, Doctor Watson...” Mycroft said, voice faint as he neared the entrance. The front door opened and shut.

John looked at Sherlock. “I thought there was a pattern in that rattling,” he said.

“Well, Morse code is barely used in the military anymore,” Sherlock said.

“I learned it as a Scout,” John replied, stepping back into the sitting room.

“You may want to refresh it a bit,” Sherlock said as he watched Gray rhythmically patting the sofa arm with one paw and looking back at him.

“R-E-T-U-R-N,” John decoded. “I never forgot it.” He grabbed Sherlock by the waist. “M-I-N-E F-I-R-S-T,” he slowly tapped out on Sherlock’s chest while staring at Gray.

“John,” Sherlock said, glancing down at John’s hand splayed over his chest. “He’s a kitten.”

“That’s all right,” John said, arm still tight around Sherlock. “No harm in being clear early on.”

Gray blinked. “M-I-N-E T-O-O,” he signalled with silent taps.

“Did I just teach him ‘mine’?” John wondered aloud.

“Perhaps,” Sherlock replied.

“How’d he learn ‘too’, then?” John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “Maybe he watches you type.”

****************


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discoveries.
> 
> Excerpt: Excerpt: _I need a hand. SH_
> 
>  _From the fridge?_ John tapped out and pushed send.

~~~~~~~~~~~~o0o~~~~~~~~~~~~

The bell over the door jingled.

“Hallo?” the young man with a cardboard box in his arms asked. He sidled into the empty yellow room, walls bright with large photos of cats and kittens in gardens and on cushions. The door tinkled closed behind him.

Alistair rose from the nest of wires behind the oak counter. “Hello,” he said, genial smile in place. “Still putting things in order, I’m afraid.” He waved towards the neatly stocked shelves behind him with the wire cutters in his left hand and at the space beneath the counter, implying the existence of more.

“Oh,” the young man said, half turning back towards the entrance. “I thought you were open for business...” 

The box mewed.

Alistair leaned forward, elbows upon the counter. “We are, just haven’t sorted all the supplies, or the wiring, yet.” He set the wire cutters aside. “How can I help?” 

 

***

John turned to the last two pages of the book in his lap. The paper dragged along a furry spine and a faint purr sounded. 

“No,” John murmured, eyes racing over the paragraphs, “I did not see that coming.” 

Two little bodies rearranged themselves on his chest. Kneading claws caught on the wool of his jumper then stilled. 

John flipped to the beginning of the final chapter, an occasional hum escaping as he ran a forefinger along the lines. “I missed that,” he murmured, “and that.” He closed the book, set it on the side table and tapped the cover. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think Sherlock was writing bestsellers on the side.”

Freud opened her eyes and stretched around her sister.

“Or was acting as a consultant to someone who was,” John added. His brow furrowed.

Freud sat up, golden gaze on John. He scratched her head. “I’d be more than cross if he was helping someone else write,” he said and lapsed into silence.

Freud pushed her head up against John’s hand. He scratched down her forehead, rubbed the top of her nose. She tilted up her chin and he scratched beneath it as well. Apgar slept on.

Next to the book, John’s mobile chirped. He left off scratching to retrieve it. Freud climbed over the arm of the chair, onto the table and sat on the book, eyes returning to John.

“Speaking of,” he said, pressing the screen.

_I need a hand. SH_

_From the fridge?_ John tapped out and pushed send. 

There had been no hint of where Sherlock had gone when John arrived home. He had suppressed the unease that had crept over him with food and tea and the book. He stared over the mobile at Sherlock’s chair. 

Gray twitched an ear from the nest he had made where one of Sherlock’s vests was wedged into the corner of the seat. 

A small muscle in John’s cheek jumped. He recalled peeling the worn fabric off and dropping it somewhere the previous evening. Sherlock had needed a hand then, too. 

The phone vibrated in John’s palm.

 _Your hand, John. SH_

John did not suppress his smile. “Where are you, you mind-reading bugger?” he muttered, remembering how the fine hairs that had risen along the bared flesh had felt against his lips. He had brought a flush to the cool skin. It had not stayed cool long.

 _Left or right?_ he texted. His ambidextrous talents intrigued Sherlock. He was cataloguing the differences between the hands. They had not conducted any tests outside the flat as yet. 

John’s glance flickered to Sherlock’s chair. John drew in a quick breath. Over that had been nice. 

_53 Huntsworth Mews. SH_ appeared on the screen almost instantaneously.

The name was familiar. John stroked Apgar while he placed the address. “Just around the corner,” he murmured, moving Apgar aside, “’course, a lot happens ‘round the corners ‘round here.” 

Apgar mewed a complaint, eyes still shut. “Sorry, love, this warm cushion’s got to run.”

The phone announced another message. _Close the curtains. SH_

From her perch on the book, Freud watched the glow of the streetlights disappear. Her eyes followed John as he got his jacket and slipped into his shoes.

John swept an assessing glance about the sitting room and the kitchen before he left. Food and water levels were satisfactory. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, mates,” he said and turned to the stairs.

Freud jumped down from the table, up onto Sherlock’s chair and curled around Gray. Apgar yawned mightily, stretched and went to join them.

*** 

Alistair peeped inside the box. Emerald eyes regarded him. There was a wiggling of ginger and white and grey amidst the long, black fur belonging to the green eyes.

The young man reached in to stroke her side. “This is Esmeralda. One night, I was putting out the rubbish and found her under some boxes beneath the front stairs. The kittens were very tiny then.” He glanced at Alistair. “My flatmates and I have been looking after them and when Sybil saw your sign yesterday, we were rather excited. I mean, we knew they needed jabs and things.” He grimaced and looked about the room, a fine flush creeping up his cheeks. “We’re all a bit short on dosh, I’m afraid, but if you ever need a chamber ensemble, you know, for a grand opening or something...” 

“The services are free,” Alistair said, sliding a clipboard across the counter, “charity and all, and we hadn’t planned anything special to introduce ourselves to the neighbourhood, no budget for it, but I’ll pass your offer along.” 

The young man caught Alistair’s eye for an instant, nodded and took up the pen atop the forms on the clipboard.

Alistair watched the neat script fill the blanks on the paper. “Alexei Livnev,” he read, “Royal Academy of Music.” Alistair hit a few keys on a computer tucked beneath the counter. “Maybe we ought to re-think the grand opening idea, Alexei.”

Alexei looked up through dark lashes, his eyes nearly as green as the cat’s. “They like it when we practice,” he said, pen poised above the paper. “The cats, I mean. Maybe other cats would, too.” Alexei added telephone numbers. “Now that the kittens can retract and extend their claws, they seem to do it to the rhythm of what we’re playing. We’ve all got tiny scratches to show for it.” He continued to write. “Possibly, we’re imagining there’s rhythm to it. I know I dream in time.”

Alistair hit the next key on his computer slightly harder than he had intended. “Not necessarily,” he said. “Cats are remarkable creatures.” He drew a long breath. “I’ll just tell Dr Flaherty that he has patients waiting.”

*** 

John recognised Huntsworth Mews. He had been lost the first time he had limped along it, looking for a shortcut to Baker Street after getting off the bus a stop too early. It was longer than most mews, two long blocks worth of former carriage houses and garages turned into expensive real estate complete with excavated basements and alarms proclaiming the names of all the finest security companies. John was not sure whether it was good or bad that Sherlock had not set any of them off.

“Here, hold this,” Sherlock whispered when John reached the cul-de-sac that ended the second street. For some reason the security light angled just where Sherlock was crouching near a basement level window did not have him in a spotlight. A single dot of orange glowed in its centre instead. 

“What...” John began to ask softly as he bent down by Sherlock.

“Keep this in place,” Sherlock interrupted, tilting his head at the manila folder he was holding against the lower part of a window in a semi-circular light well. 

John sat on the cobbled edge of the well and put his shin against the file. “...are we doing?”

“I’ll only be a moment,” Sherlock replied as he stood. He flitted to the second of the twin doors of the small building.

“Mm,” John said, observing Sherlock unlocking it in a matter of seconds and shutting it quietly behind him in a couple more. 

The moon peeked around the edge of the clouds and illuminated the vacant doorway. “You collaborating, too?” John asked the bright orb. The white letters of the ‘to let’ sign jutting out from the wall by the door caught the moonlight. The house diagonally across the mews sported a matching placard. Above the latter, the blue aura of a telly lit an upper storey window. John leaned further back into the shadows and listened for Sherlock’s return.

John felt the taps against his leg more than heard them. “O-P-E-N,” he decoded without needing to think; it was such a familiar pattern around their flat. The series repeated.

 _Garden flat to let...broken window pane_ ; John recalled the explanation. He squinted at the sign to see if he could read the name of the shoddy estate agent that had not replaced a smashed window in a couple months’ time. The taps became more rapid. He could hear the claws starting to dig into the folder.

The front door opened and Sherlock was beside him. 

“We’re staking out cats now?” John asked. 

“You can remove the folder,” Sherlock said, holding out a hand.

John passed up the file and got to his feet. “And that took more than ‘a moment’.”

“I needed to give him time to thoroughly take in my scent,” Sherlock said.

John glanced at the dark window. “I thought he’d come dashing out. His signalling was getting rather desperate.”

“He’ll wait until we walk away, I think,” Sherlock said, whirling in the direction of the intersection. 

A shout came from the blue-lit window. John froze. Muted cheering rose in the moonlight and John remembered the rugby. He joined Sherlock before he strode across the road. They continued along the second block of the mews. “Why the long way round?” John whispered. 

“It’s quieter,” Sherlock replied, “less likely to scare him off.”

John stopped himself from looking back. “He’s following us?”

“Tracking,” Sherlock said and pivoted towards Gloucester Place.

“That’s where you found the litter,” John said, tilting his head back the way they had come.

Sherlock nodded.

“But why would he keep returning? He must be able to smell that they haven’t been there in a long time,” John asked.

“Habit, hope,” Sherlock said, crossing another road and heading west on Melcombe Street. “Perhaps we can ask him.”

John stopped for a second then took a couple strides to catch up. “That’s how you knew to check there,” he said. “You deduced he must have been present regularly for the kittens to have learned the code.”

Sherlock smiled. “Good.” He turned up Siddons Lane, took out his phone and started hitting keys.

John glanced at his watch. “Most of the pubs have been closed for a while,” he said. “The mother cat would normally have been home from her rounds of the restaurants.” John looked at the buildings they were passing. “Back door?”

Sherlock nodded and put his mobile away. “I’ve alerted Mrs Hudson so she doesn’t disturb us. You may need to wait in her kitchen in the dark for a bit.”

“You think he’ll come into a house full of strange people?” John asked.

“He’s tracking us because our clothing smells of his offspring. The house does much more so,” Sherlock replied as he opened the kitchen door. “I’ll leave the door to the hallway ajar and wait on the stairs to the top floor. I’ll text you when he goes into the sitting room, so you can lock up down here and join me.”

John was about to ask how long Sherlock thought they would have to wait, but he had already slipped away.

*** 

“In the morning, we’ll be able to check how she did overnight. If all is well, you can collect Esmeralda any time after noon tomorrow. And for the kittens, three weeks from today for their second jab,” Alistair said, typing away on the keyboard below the counter.

As though on cue, the kittens started mewing and scrambling up the side of the box. Alexei opened the closed flaps a little. “We’ll be home soon,” he whispered. 

“Does the same time of day suit your schedule?” Alistair asked.

Alexei looked up. “Sorry.”

“For the kittens’ next appointment. Does the same time suit?”

“It might be Sybil or Antonio who bring them next. Not Lev though, his schedule’s mad this year. Can I tell you tomorrow, when I come to get Esmeralda?” Alexei asked in a rush, his fingers drumming nervously on the top of the box. The meows grew louder.

Alistair pushed a button beneath the counter. “That will be fine.” He set the clipboard up on the counter. “If you could just add their names and mobile numbers to the form.”

Alexei wrote with one hand and kept tapping with the other. Alistair kept a finger on the clipboard to keep it from sliding away. The kittens quieted.

“It’s a tune, isn’t it?” Alistair said when Alexei put down the pen.

Alexei smiled. “Yes. Sybil was studying Haydn and the centenary tributes that used his name in compositions, so she wrote a piece based on Esmeralda’s name using a mix of notes and solmization syllables, _C, D, E, F, do, re, mi_ and so on.” Alexei’s tapping changed, apparently to demonstrate Sybil’s work. There was a meow from the box. Alistair’s drumming resumed its initial rhythm. “The kittens seemed to like it if their kneading was anything to go by, so we all wrote one based on a word or phrase. They were well received by our furry audience, although the one that got their tails tapping in time was Lev’s.” 

Alistair kept a polite smile on his face. “Do you have a theory as to why?”

Alexei shook his head. “Not really. Lev’s chuffed that his is their favourite. He had so little time, he just tapped a message in Morse code out on a tambourine with a little jangle at the end. Lev thinks they prefer his rhythm. Sybil thinks they like the message.”

Alistair chuckled as a laugh seemed expected. “What was it? ‘Feed me’?” he asked.

“Well, their mother mostly does that,” Alexei replied. “It was ‘Return and play’.”

Alistair could not keep his eyebrows down. “Other cats _might_ like it,” he said.

“We could market the songs as cat entertainment,” Alexei joked. “I wonder if any radio station would play that.”

“You never know,” Alistair said, “but if you start selling it, we’ll buy a copy for the surgery.” He handed Alexei a business card with the surgery’s name, contact details and the date of the kittens’ appointment on it. 

“We’d _give_ you a copy,” Alexei replied, tucking the card in his pocket and picking up the box. “See you tomorrow.”

Alistair came around the counter and opened the door. “There are frequently asked questions about jabs and post-operative care on our website as well as tips on how to feed kittens this young. We put a carton of Cimicat kitten formula in the box so you can get them through the night.”

“Thank you,” Alexei said as the door jingled closed.

Alistair hopped over the gate between the counter and the wall on his way to the back rooms. “Did you hear that?” he said when the door shut behind him.

Anthea looked up from her Blackberry for an instant and nodded.

*** 

The wall clock ticked as the minute hand moved from one dark notch to the next. The refrigerator hummed. Muffled by several brick walls, the murmur of night-time traffic sounded farther away than it was. John inhaled quietly. Mrs Hudson had made the cinnamon cake again. He kept his eyes on the door. In dots and dashes of colour, the strands of beads over the doorway reflected the green light on the power strip beside the fridge. The minute hand lurched forward. The refrigerator’s motor took a rest. The beads clicked against one another, scattering green sparks over the walls. Only John’s eyes shifted towards the movement. No feline form was discernible among the shadows. The beads stilled. The clock ticked. In his pocket, John’s mobile vibrated. He checked the message, exhaled slowly and shut the door. 

*** 

Mycroft smelt the sawdust, the solder and the glue. He slipped his umbrella into the stand by his desk and sat. Several files were stacked before him, a diagram topmost. 

Red lingered by the closed door, sniffing metal and concrete repeatedly before making a complete circuit of the room then half of another. He halted in front of the mirror and stood, his paw flattening against the glass. 

Mycroft glanced up from the final page of the first file as the mirror moved to the left. 

Red jumped back and crouched. 

The glass came to a rest over the adjacent wall, revealing a deep cupboard set into the cement, divided by carpet-covered shelves of increasing narrowness as they progressed upwards from the floor. 

Ears out to the side, Red slunk forward, whiskers twitching.

Mycroft took out his pocket watch. Five seconds later, the tip of Red’s tail was no longer visible. Two seconds after that, the sound of kibble being crunched reached his ears. Mycroft made a modification to the diagram and picked up the second file.

*** 

John avoided the creaky stairs and the noisy boards of the landing. He sat on the step above Sherlock and leaned over his shoulder. “What next?” he whispered.

Sherlock touched his forefinger to his lips then pointed towards the sitting room door.

Three entered the hallway and stopped midway, looking first towards the stairs leading down and then those leading up. He found Sherlock and John and settled his gaze on them. Apgar, Freud and Gray had followed, pausing behind Three when he halted. Gray glanced up, meowed and began digging his claws into the carpet, the sound of the fibres ripping distinct as he pulled his paw up with his claws still hooked about them.

John recognised the pattern: R-E-T-U-R-N.

“My cue,” Sherlock murmured and stood, walking slowly down the stairs until he was a pace or two from the sitting room door. He crouched.

Gray meowed again and leapt onto Sherlock’s knee, stretched up to Sherlock’s shoulder, rubbed his face against Sherlock’s cheek and purred. Sherlock stroked Gray’s back until Gray turned and jumped down, trotted to where Three stood and touched his nose to Three’s.

Freud started kneading the carpet.

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at John and raised his eyebrow.

“Right,” John mumbled and descended the steps. He sat on the hallway chair. Apgar and Freud chose separate legs to climb, circling each other when they reached his lap and purring as they butted their heads against his jumper. John felt a bit chuffed to have two of them making a fuss of him. He glanced up and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

When John looked away, Three was heading down the stairs. A moment later, the rhythmic scratching on Mrs Hudson’s door reached their ears.

“I’ll get that, shall I?” Sherlock said, extending his arm. Gray ran up it and arranged himself on Sherlock’s shoulder. Together they answered the summons. 

Freud and Apgar curled into a furry heap and closed their eyes. John curved an arm around them, heard Mrs Hudson's door open. A minute later Sherlock and Gray came into view on the stairs.

"Gone the way he came?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded.

“We passed muster, then,” John said.

“It would appear so,” Sherlock replied.

“He’ll come back?” John asked.

“He knows the way now,” Sherlock said.

“But you aren’t going to tell Mycroft,” John surmised.

"Three's used to his autonomy," Sherlock said, his hand drifting to his shoulder. Gray nudged at Sherlock's fingers with his nose. Sherlock smoothed Gray's fur and strolled into the sitting room. “And it will mean so much more to Mycroft if he finds him on his own, don't you think.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


End file.
